


it's not a lie. just delayed honesty.

by thebetterbina



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Everyone is Human, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - The Blacklist, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Gen, I Tried, M/M, Mindfuck, Multi, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Why Did I Write This?, Your Pants Cant Wait For My Piss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 02:53:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16053944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebetterbina/pseuds/thebetterbina
Summary: “Connor ‘Red’ Reddington attended the Naval Academy. Top of his class. Graduated by the time he was 24. He was being groomed for admiral. Then this highly respected officer up and disappears from the face of the earth, until a year later when classified NOFORN documents start showing up in Maghreb, Islamabad, Beijing. These leaks were traced to Reddington. This guy’s an equal opportunity offender, a facilitator of sorts, who’s built an enterprise brokering deals for fellow criminals.”Markus frowns at the track record he reads, from a shiny star to dirty criminal.“He has no country. He has no political agenda. Reddington’s only allegiance is to the highest bidder.”“They call him something in the papers.”Someone near him notes, he nods in affirmation.“Theconciergeof crime.”Connor is a Reddington, and he's gonna fuck everyone up.I stand true to my tags. Your pants can't wait for my piss.





	it's not a lie. just delayed honesty.

**Author's Note:**

> **  
> **  
> **YOUR PANTS CANT WAIT FOR MY PISS.**  
>   
> 
> If you've watched The Blacklist then you know what the PHUCK is about to go DOWN.
> 
> ALwaYs open to suggestions and ideas! A kiss and cake for u muah
> 
> KUDOS N COMMENTS GIVE ME ENERGY

Between the people milling about, off to work or heading away from it, eyes don’t linger where they’re not supposed to. A sole figure approaches the stranger seated on the bench, his steps are unnaturally quiet for someone dressed as mundane as any office worker - he places the briefcase gently from where the stranger sits, his eyes are cast down, voice considered a whisper over the whistling wind and idle chatter. There’s subservience somewhere in his tone as he speaks.

 

_“Must be good to be home again, sir.”_

 

The stranger only returns the comment with a humoured chuckle, his voice is silvery, lined in velvet, encased in honey. Pleasant, if it weren’t for the intent neatly tucked away behind brown eyes that glint with a quiet mischief that spoke of anything _but_ innocence. Behind his sunglasses, the stranger doesn’t offer a glance to the man, eyes only forward.

 

 _“Yeah.”_ The stranger pauses, lips quirking. _“Well, we’ll see about that.”_

 

Taking the briefcase, he strides towards the building, flashing a measured smile to the officers manning the rows of detection machines on F.B.I. territory. He passes through them with a resounding, safe, _beep_ and green light; footfalls taking him to the young lady manning the front of the access gates. He ruffles around his coat before pulling out a passport, handing it to her with all good-natured civility the day could afford. His fedora hid away his face, glasses to make him unidentifiable to the cameras above.

 

_“Good afternoon, I’m here to see Assistant Director Amanda Stern.”_

 

 _“Do you have an appointment?”_ The young lady offers a cant of the head, curious, not many people brought up the Assistant Director’s name unless they were in direct contact with the woman or important enough they didn’t need to go through the front desk of the FBI.

 

_“I do not. Tell her it’s Connor Reddington.”_

 

She takes the identification, going through the motions as out of the corner of her eye she notices the man abruptly walking to the middle of the foyer and begin taking his coat, fedora, and sunglasses off. All laid neatly over the briefcase he had walked in with. She wants to voice a question, a small concern, only stopped when the computer rings with a shrill cry, multiple beeping indicating the alarm systems were triggered and ready to be engaged.

 

**Red.**

 

Her hand is quick to slam down on the emergency button, the siren wailing through the building as officers are quick to respond to the sole figure that triggered the alarm, he offers a serene smile, kneeling down without any prompting and hands already tucked neatly behind his head - the array of guns pointed at him all held in a quiet, bated breath, only permeated by the sound of the repeating alarm.

 

In neat, printed words, the screen read the blaring information:

 

**FBI TEN MOST WANTED FUGITIVE**

**CONNOR REDDINGTON**

 

 

xxx

 

 

**F.B.I. SPECIAL OPS DIVISION WASHINGTON D.C.**

 

Amanda had already begun the day feeling the migraine impending as soon as she got the call, exiting from the escorted vehicle and immediately meeting the agent in charge.

 

 _“Manfred, Washington field office, I’m the case agent on Reddington.”_ Markus greets her with a firm handshake, his voice clear and articulated over the quick paced steps.

 

_“When did this happen?”_

 

_“Under an hour ago.”_

 

 _“Can you confirm it’s actually him?”_ Amanda has her right to doubt, everyone did, especially regarding the most wanted criminal that offered himself up so willingly despite the multiple guns that had been aimed onto his head.

 

_“It’s him alright, prints match, tattoos, he even volunteered classified details about a Brussels mission.”_

 

She pauses, glancing over to the agent as they made their way into the secured facility.

 

_“What happened in Brussels?”_

 

The agent, Manfred, pauses.

 

_“We tried to kill him ma’am.”_

 

 

xxx

 

 

 _“_ _It really is him.”_

 

Her voice still holds disbelief strong, watching over the camera feed trained on the sole figure sitting, albeit too calmly, on the chair he had been securely strapped onto. The figure doesn’t struggle, his eyes are faced forward, overall lax posture.

 

Connor Reddington is sitting, secured down by both hands and feet to a chair bolted to the ground in an isolation chamber, a big large box made of multiple layers of polycarbonate. The air inside it is tightly regulated, oxygen flowing in, everything else steadily out. There are cameras on four corners, but Reddington chooses to only face forward. An entire team of heavily armed soldiers to act as guards, stiffly standing at every possible considered point of escape should anything wrong happen.

 

One man, but it’s all the precaution they **need** to take.

 

 _“Came in with a briefcase containing every alias he’s ever used. Most of them we never even heard of.”_ Markus continues, laying out the manila folder before Amanda as she flicks through it.

 

_“What does he want?”_

 

_“Don’t know. Won’t talk. He’s a stone.”_

 

Her lips purse, should’ve expected this much.

 

_“Call lab services. Have them fit him with an AlphaChip RFID tag. Assemble a full intel review. NSA. CIA.”_

 

 _“What exactly do you want to know?”_ Markus questions, curiosity, as well as all those around him, evident in the way they glance at her.

 

_“Everything.”_

 

 

xxx

 

 

Markus is quick to relay the shortened biography for the team, all attention on the sole figure sitting, seemingly imperturbed despite the glass box.

 

_“Connor ‘Red’ Reddington attended the Naval Academy. Top of his class. Graduated by the time he was 24. He was being groomed for admiral. Then this highly respected officer up and disappears from the face of the earth, until a year later when classified NOFORN documents start showing up in Maghreb, Islamabad, Beijing. These leaks were traced to Reddington. This guy’s an equal opportunity offender, a facilitator of sorts, who’s built an enterprise brokering deals for fellow criminals.”_

 

Markus frowns at the track record he reads, from a shiny star to dirty criminal. _“He has no country. He has no political agenda. Reddington’s only allegiance is to the highest bidder.”_

 

 _“They call him something in the papers.”_ Someone near him notes, he nods in affirmation.

 

_“The concierge of crime.”_

 

 

xxx

 

 

_“He’s online.”_

 

It’s only after the tagging chip’s been injected and Reddington’s location pinging on their screen does the man finally speak. His voice placid, if not showing only mild disinterest despite whatever chaos he’s created by appearing, unarmed, unguarded, at the foot of the FBI building like some twisted version of a Christmas present on a silver platter.

 

_“Evidently someone with the authority to make decisions has arrived. I think I smell the stench of your perfume, Agent Stern. Smells like hubris.”_

 

She almost feels annoyed by the voice, smooth, holding a hint of mockery. Her voice clicks at the team.

 

_“Get these feeds fixed, I want him up here. Come on.”_

 

Reddington’s eyes are trained onto the camera, his voice enunciating every syllable with no identifiable accent as he speaks in a lazy drawl, almost yawning the information as if it didn’t bother him in the slightest.

 

_“You must have many questions, so let’s begin with the most important one, why I’m here. Remember the 1986 attack on the U.S. embassy in Damascus, the abduction of the six foreign nationals from the French consulate in Algiers in ‘97, or the 2002 breach of the Krung Thai Bank in Bangkok? You see these events as unrelated, I can tell you one man is responsible for all three. His name is Zlatko Andronikov.”_

 

There’s a pause as he speaks, smiling ever sweetly into the camera enough to make people bristle at the wolfish grin. “ _You want him, I want him. So let’s say for the moment … our **interests** are aligned.”_

 

It takes not a couple of seconds after the name is mentioned that a nearby agent pulls the information up.

 

_“Zlatko Sinisa Andronikov. Serbian national educated in the U.S.”_

 

DECEASED is lettered across the screen in angry red blinking letters.

 

Amanda rubs the temple between her eyes, speaking through the mic and into where Reddington can hear the borderline impatience in her tone.

 

_“Zlatko Andronikov’s been dead for six years. He’s a non-existent threat.”_

 

Connor offers an indifferent shrug, continuing unaffected by the words. _“Then a dead man just stepped off United 283 from Munich to Dulles.”_

 

Another few minutes but the agents are fast on their work.

 

_“He entered the country under the name Sacha M. Chacko.”_

 

_“Cleared customs at 10.56 a.m.”_

 

_“Listen up, people. The lab just pulled a latent print from the airline armrest. Nine points of comparison Andronikov’s alive.”_

 

She feels the headache coming back again, being Assistant Director truly had more than its fair share of challenges if the creases on her face were anything to go by. She forces an even tone, if the reports were true as they said, bringing out any form of emotion would only serve to entertain their willing prisoner. She presses the button to the microphone once.

 

_“You have my attention.”_

 

They watch him smile again, his face turned away from the main camera, affable nature would be evident if he wasn’t a most wanted criminal for indictment. He mouths the words, slow, deliberate.

 

_“Were you wrong?”_

 

She offers a pinched smile.

 

_“I was wrong.”_

 

 _“Yes, you were **wrong**.”_ Connor returns with a half hearted laugh, a scoff somewhere as he speaks, indignant over the fact the F.B.I. would find fault over whatever he spoke. _“At least it’s not the first time. Familiar territory. Now I’ll give you Andronikov, but first —“_

 

She’s quick to cut him off. _“No ‘but firsts.’ You don’t decide anything.”_

 

 _“Agent Stern, you’ve overestimated your authority. I said I’ll help you find Andronikov, and I will. But from this point forward, there’s one very important rule,”_ dark eyes are back with their focus on the camera, all hints of a smile wiped from features that now present the aura of the criminal they were expecting - one who expected all his demands to be met in kind.

 

_“I speak only with Hank Anderson.”_

 

Silence falls the room as an uncomfortable blanket, permeated by Agent Markus’s voice that rings the question all of them had.

 

_“Who the hell’s Hank Anderson?”_

**Author's Note:**

> connor: hank anderson  
> markus: whomst've the fuck


End file.
